


something too much of this

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hamlet - Freeform, M/M, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John and Hamlet. What could be better?</p>
            </blockquote>





	something too much of this

It was a dreary day in London, and perhaps even more so on Baker Street. Sherlock had shot another hole in the wall that morning, and Mrs. Hudson had taken away his gun, mobile phone, and anything else that would be of service to him in his dectecting. At the time, Sherlock had mumbled something about how he didn’t have a case anyway and see what he cared, but now the boringness of it all was starting to hit him.

“John.”

John looked up from his laptop, glancing across the room to where Sherlock lay sprawled on the couch. 

“Yes?”

Sherlock lay silent. He hadn’t actually thought of anything to say—he had just wanted to speak to his flatmate. 

After a minute’s worth of quiet, he spoke: “What are you reading?” His voice seemed to come growling out of the back of his throat, and John couldn’t help but notice the change in tone.

John cleared his throat. “It’s nothing, really. A blog from a chef, something about how to roast an egg properly.”

“Boring.” They both rolled their eyes, albeit at different subjects. 

Seven minutes more passed in silence, during which John clicked through blog posts about how to read body language, how to properly store human fingers (once they’ve been removed, of course), and even a very odd one about the proper technique for kissing one’s lover’s ears. 

“You should try Shakespeare.”

“Sorry?” Even as John spoke, there was a flurry of movement in a corner of the room. A book landed, perfectly facing upwards, on his laptop’s keyboard: William Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_. 

 

\--- _“Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week?”_ \---

 

It had been a week, in fact, since John had picked up Hamlet. Sherlock was at the kitchen table, nose deep in his microscope while trying to detect some minute compound nobody else in the universe had ever heard of.

“John?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper so as not to disturb whatever lived in his glass slide. “Can you pass me my phone?” 

John sighed. “Jacket pocket again?” he asked, and got up when Sherlock nodded. He walked up to him, huffed out another puff of air, and slipped his hand inside Sherlock’s jacket. 

On the way to the phone, John’s hand brushed an inadvertent patch of skin. He nearly jumped as a little shock sparked through his fingers and made its way straight down through his body.

No, he thought. Definitely not. But maybe… no. 

Shaking his head, he handed Sherlock his phone. _“Here, sweet lord, at your service,”_ he quoted. John laughed a little to himself, pleased at his little joke. But the way Sherlock snapped his head up from his microscope and his sharp intake of breath said that his flatmate was taking it very differently.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock blinked, and spoke: _“Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man as e’er my conversation coped withal.”_ He stood, and the two were just a little too close to each other. But John continued.

_“O my dear lord—”_

Sherlock took another deep breath. _“Nay,”_ he said, and let out his dark chuckle. 

_“Do not think I flatter._  
For what advancement may I hope from thee  
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits,  
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?” 

He spoke clearly, deliberately, slowly. John only listened, taking careful measure of his breaths.

_“No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,_  
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee  
Where thrift may follow fawning.” 

Sherlock smiled— _“Dost thou hear?”_ His face and John’s were close now. He began to speak more quickly, a sense of urgency in his shadowy speech. 

_“Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice_  
And could of men distinguish, her election  
Hath sealed thee for herself, for thou hast been—  
As one in suffering all that suffers nothing—  
A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards  
Hast ta’en with equal thanks. And so blessed are those  
Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled,  
That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger  
To sound what stop she please.” 

Sherlock stopped suddenly, swallowing, as if making one of his carefully weighed decisions. He slowly raised a hand, resting it on the side of John’s neck. John shivered, but he did not pull away. When their Hamlet spoke once again, it was with the same deliberateness with which it had begun. 

_“Give me that man_  
That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him  
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart—” 

Sherlock bent his head just enough that the final four words were tasted on each of their lips, that same spark flowing through both of their minds and bodies.

_“As I do thee.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, the dialogue is mostly from Hamlet-- Act 3, Scene 2. I've also thrown in a quote from Shakespeare's poem "The Rape of Lucrece" as well as some random references here and there. See if you can catch them.


End file.
